


Cross Counter

by PepperPrints



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don't waste your time. You'll just get more pain than when you started.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As of 2015, this project is abandoned. Apologies about that. It is staying up, however, for people to read. I hope it can be enjoyed even in an unfinished state.

A boxer's most important possession is his hands.

 

Murdock isn't a prize fighter, and his world of combat has origins in other places than the boxing ring, but in ways he shows he is still his father's son. One tell is how he wraps his hands, steady and methodical, with the same stern focus that one would expect from a man sharpening a blade, or loading a gun.

 

The latter is Frank's half of this ritual; another reluctant ceasefire between himself and Murdock for mutual ends. He loads his pack, swapping out magazines. Nonlethal ammunition is his concession, and he agrees because he knows this target is bigger than him – bigger than either of them, on their own.

 

His gaze lingers on Matt, watching the steady process that he uses to prepare his fists. There's bruises on his knuckles, purple and black against pale flesh, quickly concealed by white fabric, and Frank's lips remain set in an impassive frown. He has been on the wrong side of Murdock's anger; he knows how hard he hits.

 

“It's rude to stare,” Matt chides absently, crisscrossing the wrap between his fingers. It's such a practiced ritual that he doesn't even seem to require thought. His head tilts towards Frank, and his unmasked face exposes how his glassy eyes don't quite level out to where Frank stands. His gaze is unfocused, somewhere closer to Frank's shoulder than his face. “Even a blind man knows that.”

 

“How does a blind man know I'm staring,” Frank counters bluntly, loading his rifle with a satisfying click. A wry smile pulls at the corner of Matt's mouth.

 

“You're not as subtle as you think,” he says, and Frank has to raise a brow at that. Matt slides his bare hand across the table, skimming over Frank's workspace – a tabletop with neatly arranged collection of guns, ammunition, knives and disposable phones – until he finds his roll for his second hand. He nearly starts the work right then, but he hesitates. “It'd spare you a lot of grief if you wrapped your hands.”

 

Murdock has a point. Frank won't admit that out loud, but it's fair. Most of his work is done at gunpoint, and that grants distance. His fists are for when something goes wrong, and someone gets too close. For Murdock, however, his hands are half of his battle. He throws punches as often as he throws his clubs.

 

“You never see a doctor,” Matt continues. “God knows how many fractures you have.”

 

God knows, and now the Devil knows too, since Murdock catches his wrist when Frank's hand reaches for another gun. Frank scowls, and nearly jerks his hand free, but the expression on Murdock's face gives him pause.

 

“Jesus,” Matt breaths, with both hands on him now. Fingers trace over Frank's skin, mapping out the expanse of his hand. It's hard to say how much heightened touch exposes, but the tone of Matt's voice indicates something grave. “Can you even throw a punch? Doesn't it hurt?”

 

Frank's scowl deepens, and before he can comment, Matt has picks up a roll of bandages. “Don't argue,” he says, as Frank's mouth opens, and Frank wisely doesn't. “Keep your hand relaxed. If you clench, it won't fit properly.”

 

In absence of another set of wraps, Murdock settles for simple gauze. He ties a knot, allowing him to loop the fabric around Frank's thumb, and then he starts the process. He rolls the gauze around the back of Frank's hand, then circles his wrist for support.

 

“Small comfort, considering the state of your hands,” remarks Matt as he works. “But at least it won't make things worse.”

 

The process is repeated around his palm, again and again, before Matt guides the bandaging between his fingers. Soft fabric moves in the gaps between his fingers, soft but supportive, and Matt steadies Frank's wrist as he does it.

 

“Never had much time for comforts,” Frank blandly replies, and Matt's milky eyes narrow in his direction.

 

Murdock is less sure with Frank's hands than he is with his own. He stops here and there, assuring tension and more than once doing an action over. His free hand skims over Frank's every so often, painting a proper picture in his mind for his task. Matt's hands are smaller than Frank's, by a fraction, and that seems to slow his work.

 

“So you give yourself unnecessary strain?” Matt asks, and Frank chooses silence.

 

Extra support is granted to his thumb, then his knuckles. After a few extra loops around Frank's wrist, Murdock cuts the fabric and ends it. “Flex,” Matt instructs, “test it. It shouldn't be too tight.”

 

Frank makes a fist. The bandages tighten accordingly, but they do not squeeze too tightly. Frank nods, instinctively, and regardless Matt seems to be able to sense the motion. Frank expects to surrender his other hand, but instead Matt pushes the roll of bandages into his palm.

 

“Do it yourself this time, and show me.”

 

Frank debates argument, and settles against it. The practical excuse is that he still needs Murdock for this operation, so sparking his anger isn't wise. Even so, it's not the full reason. Pliantly, he recalls the movements Murdock made. He ties the loop around his thumb, but Murdock touches his wrist, stilling him before he moves.

 

“Around the back of your hand,” he corrects, “not across your palm. The tension will be wrong otherwise.”

 

Frank accepts the correction without comment. The rest of the process he manages without much interference from Matt. Once or twice, Matt urges him to double around again, or adjusts his form, but Frank is practical enough to know what to do when his memory of Murdock's actions grows fuzzy.

 

When he finishes, Murdock inspects the work. His hands, one wrapped and one bare, explore Frank's. He traces, examines, and lingers far more than should be necessary. Frank watches his hands, focusing on the battered flesh of Matt's unwrapped hand.

 

“How much pain are you in?” Matt asks, and Frank ought to have expected it. He pulls back, but Matt snatches his wrist, gripping hard. “You do what you do. You don't stop. You can't go to a hospital. That all adds up.”

 

“Not your concern,” replies Frank blandly, and Matt's hold tightens.

 

“It is if I'm relying on you in a fight. How much pain are you in?” Matt reiterates, sterner than before.

 

“Depends,” Frank counters, and he grabs Matt's hand, applying pressure to that broken, bruised flesh. “How much are you in?”

 

“Castle--” Matt withdraws and he winces, telltale, hissing out his exhale. He mutters a curse, shaking his arm as if to wave away the sting, and an unfocused glare is cast in Frank's direction.

 

“Don't waste your time,” Frank advises curtly, before Murdock can get in another word. He picks up his bag, and he looks at Matt expectantly. “You'll just get more pain than when you started.”

 

–

 

At the end of all things, Frank's prediction is correct.

 

They succeed in their mission, but the price involves a gunshot wound in Murdock's shoulder. It isn't anything serious; stitches will resolve it, and Frank is a capable enough medic.

 

The reason Frank offers his help is obvious: Murdock took a shot that was intended for Frank. Matt's motivations, however, are more difficult to puzzle out. He doesn't ask why Murdock allows Frank to do it, rather than shove away the offer. It might have been the previous discussion, leaving him lingering; trying to make a point.

 

Murdock drags his gloves and cowl off, and pulls away the upper half of his costume with a cringe. As he does, Matt exposes evidence of further abuse: bruises and old scars. The shape of Matt's body is slender but strong; sturdy enough to carry the road map of injuries written across his skin. It's nothing that Frank hasn't seen before, and he does not think twice. He gave Frank enough trouble for old wounds, and he ought to have spared some of that concern for himself.

 

Hot water is collected in a basin, along with cloth to clean the wound. Matt already has the medical kit open when Frank returns, and when he takes over, Matt does not object.

 

Frank wrings the cloth out, wiping the wound clean. Matt hisses out a breath, tension bleeding into a sigh, and he remains stoic as Frank applies two stitches. It crosses Frank's mind, idly, if Murdock's sense of pain is as acute as all the rest. It would follow suit, although he doesn't make much show of it. After the lifestyle he chose, one would expect him to adapt.

 

Frank finishes quickly enough; his work is efficient due to years of self-practice. That task done, Frank could step away from Matt altogether, and send him out the door.

 

Instead, Frank begins unwrapping Matt's hands. This too comes with a wince and a grunt of discomfort. The wrappings aren't meant as padding; they merely support the hands, adding extra protection against fractions and encouraging stronger form. The white cloth is tinged red, dark like the costume Matt discarded, and the skin underneath is worse. It's an elaborate process, slowly unwinding all that complex wrapping, and yet all the while Matt remains pliant.

 

Frank wets the cloth again, cleaning Matt's hands as he had his shoulder. This draws a different kind of sound from him, more relieved than pained, and Frank reconsiders. Cutting out the in between, he moves the basin in front of them, and dips Matt's hand into the water. The heat seems to be more than Matt anticipates, as he instinctively tries to withdraw, but Frank's grip holds him down.

 

“It's scalding,” Matt protests, but Frank holds him under.

 

“It's fine.”

 

As Frank anticipates, Matt does adjust to the temperature in time. Some protest does return in the form of a wince when Frank's thumb slides across his knuckles, but otherwise Matt is silent. Frank doesn't bother to unwrap his own hands, and he scarcely even noticed it; it doesn't make much difference. The bandages are softened underwater, coming lose from their ties as he frames Matt's smaller hand in both of his.

 

Frank is close enough to pick up on smaller details. There is scar tissue around the corner of Matt's eyes, paler flesh, and he seems permanently plagued by dark circles: purple rings giving him a look of exhaustion; weariness. The eyes themselves are glassy, their focus resting too far upward, but Frank isn't given much time to linger on that. As he works on Matt's hands, his eyes flutter shut.

 

The heat of the water leaves Matt's skin red, but the bruises and torn flesh still stand out. Matt attempts to move his arms, Frank allows him to pull away. What he expects is for Matt to withdraw entirely, but instead damp hands grab a fistful of his shirt.

 

“How much pain are you in?”

 

That stubborn question reemerges, and Frank's frown deepens. Murdock won't accept going without an answer, so Frank offers one – and it's the truth.

 

“Nothing you can fix.”

 

It's not often that he's actually seen Murdock without the cowl, or the glasses that replace it. His face tells too much, especially now. There's weakness there, how badly Murdock wants a change that will never come. He pushes and strives, but Frank does not bend. Regardless, he does not cease his efforts. Admirable, but stupid; wasteful. The grip on Frank's shirt tightens, and he pulls--

 

Another wet hand buries into the back of his hair, gripping and anchoring, as Matt's mouth finds his. With the kiss comes a rough, breathy kind of sound; something in between need and frustration. The former seems to be more prominent, as Murdock chooses tongue over teeth, delving deep.

 

Frank's reaction is muted. He takes a step back, but Murdock follows him. He pushes, his grip on Frank holding him – hand buried in his hair, hand twisting at the painted skull – without losing an inch. Frank does not lift his hands, and his role in the kiss is passive; absent. Matt pushes, and it isn't crossing a boundary; Murdock knows better than that – he's seeking out what he has convinced himself is there: something that is buried, rather than acknowledged.

 

“Don't,” is hissed against Frank's mouth – demand or plea? – and Frank's reply is: “Enough.”

 

Matt draws back, but only just. His head bows away, the kiss broken, and his forehead presses against Frank's jaw. The tension in his posture is telling, their proximity leaving no room for doubt. His hot, angry exhale brushes against Frank's neck, and his fingers pull at the roots of his hair. Matt stays like that, close and stiff, and when he speaks, his voice carries exhaustion.

 

“Doesn't it hurt?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 2015, this project is abandoned. Apologies about that. It is staying up, however, for people to read. I hope it can be enjoyed even in an unfinished state.

No one remembers his face.

 

That's something the costumed crowd underestimates. Frank has no reason to mask himself; nothing to hide and nothing to lose. Yet, even so, he can walk the streets of New York City and not be stopped. The reasoning is simple enough: no one remembers his face; they remember the skull.

 

When someone puts a mask on, that's where the obsession starts. Show anyone something they can't have, and they immediately want it more. Frank can go out every day, with his face on display, and scant few know him. However, any of the other lot – Spider-Man, Spector, or Murdock – the second they expose themselves, even for an instant, any who witness it will commit every detail to memory. Because it's meant to be secret. Because they're not meant to see it.

 

Then again, Murdock may as well be unmasked at all hours. The scandal he endured has calmed, but the embers kick up every so often, catching flame. For the time being, however, things are quiet – quiet enough for Murdock to go out in public without ridicule.

 

Frank wonders how attuned he is. He isn't stupid; he knows the man can recognize his heartbeat. There is the matter of countless other New Yorkers passing by, crowding walkways. There's also the street between them, with countless moving cars, and no one is hesitant to use their horn.

 

Across the street, Matt sits on the outdoor section of a cafe, nursing something hot and sliding his fingertips over pages of braille.

 

At a distance, it's hard to capture details. It's impossible for Frank to tell if the reading is for legal work, or pleasure. It seems doubtful that Matt would take his business outside; too professional for that. He may have just required the space, but if not, that leaves the question: what is he reading?

 

The thought of the latter lingers on him, with fuzzy, tinted memories of a childhood buried behind books.

 

Without any obvious prompting, Matt's head lifts, and Frank wonders if it's been caught. His head cocks, and it's an oddly animal reaction, like a hunting dog catching sound of prey.

 

Not an entirely apt description, Frank's mind idly amends. Murdock doesn't have the qualities of a dog.

 

Whatever trail Matt is on is stalled by the waitress. She's young, pretty enough, and seems happy to make smalltalk with her attractive patron. They exchange words that Frank can't hear at this distance, but Murdock says something that colors her dark complexion with a blush, and she bashfully tucks a curl back behind her ear.

 

That always comes too easy for Murdock.

 

She refills his cup and Matt returns to his reading. There is distraction in him now, his head turning every so often, trying to catch that sound again. His face begins to set into a frown, and his fingers close his book.

 

Time to go.

 

Frank slips his hands into the pockets of his coat and he continues on his way. There is no set goal in his mind right away, but as his feet move, his destination slowly becomes sure. Going indoors is practical, opening up potential to lose Murdock by ducking inside, rather than being chased down the streets. Something else motivates as well: a thought that's been in his mind while he watched slender fingers slide over raised pages.

 

The bookstore is small and far from the elaborate. Unlike the more glamorous venues that carry the same product, this place won't ask for a membership card or urge you over to the connected cafe, where you'd drink overpriced coffee to go along with your overpriced novel.

 

He is acknowledged by the clerk, but not swarmed with the desire to sell. The air is of a quiet, personal business, and there's life involved. The shelves burst, certain sections overflow, and the mess doesn't seem cluttered or off-putting; it's more natural than the pristine, neat and orderly, shelves one sees elsewhere.

 

His main focus is a lined notebook, lightly bound and lacking bulk. Frank's commitment to his written word is determined, but it's the gesture that compels him, more than the idea of archives. Countless numbers of journals have been lost, as Frank moves from one place to another, and he does not mourn. Once he has emptied his mind onto a page, he does not reflect or return to it afterward. He empties his mind, discards it, and he moves forward.

 

Journal in hand, he approaches the desk, and on his way, his eye is caught by something else. William Butler Yeats is propped up by the register, the cashier's chosen recommendation for the day. Yeats is something Frank is familiar with, along with Crane and Blake: craftsmen of a childhood lived so many years ago.

 

He offers the journal to the woman behind the cash, and adds the copy of _The Tower_ along with it.

 

Frank accepts his change – always cash, to avoid any attempt of trace – and when he turns, he hears the store's door open and shut. Murdock is waiting for him, and he looks predictably displeased. His posture is stiff, clutching tight on his cane with one hand and on his book with the other.

 

Frank notices again that his knuckles are still bruised and he wonders how Murdock dodges questions around the law office.

 

Frank pockets the coins and approaches Matt in steady strides. Matt has to play the bluff, looking more helpless than he truly is in a new space, and he finds himself in front of Frank soon enough. There may be deception in how he taps his cane around, and how his hand needlessly slides over the edge of one bookshelf, but he doesn't make any false appearances when he addresses Frank. He is blunt and upfront.

 

“You were following me,” Matt states plainly. “Why?”

 

“And you're following me now,” Frank points out, brushing past him without another thought. “Why's that?”

 

Frank starts walking towards a corner of the store, and Matt keeps pace with him. There isn't any coffee shop attached here, but the owners do have a pair of comfortable chairs and a table for their patrons to sit and enjoy their purchases. It's better to stay indoors and in sight; Murdock won't make a scene in the middle of a place like this. The chairs are far enough away that they won't be overheard, but close enough that someone could tell if Matt tries to start an argument.

 

“Frank--” Matt starts, and he is cut short.

 

“Sit,” Frank tells him, pulling his jacket out from under him, so it's not trapped beneath him as he sits down. “Or go.”

 

After a moment of stubborn frowning, Matt chooses the former. He sits down, and he heaves a sigh, tipping his head back against the plush support of the chair.

 

“Castle,” he says, his voice more tired than irritated. “What is this about?”

 

It's worth asking. It's mixed signals, to deny Murdock then show up at his heels. Still, Frank offers him nothing. He simply opens up _The Tower_ and he begins to read. It starts with foreword; a history about the author, and Frank decides not skip over it. It's been years; he should familiarize himself with Yeats.

 

“She's going to start getting suspicious,” Matt continues after several beats of silence. “It's a bit odd to have a blind man sitting in a bookstore, surrounded by things he supposedly can't appreciate.”

 

Supposedly being the key word. Murdock can appreciate them, although showing it off gives the game away. While he's capable of it, it's likely more of a strain, trying to read printed word instead of braille; not the sort of thing he'd go to for leisure.

 

“Then go,” Frank replies simply, which earns a scoffing sort of sound from Matt: 'you wish' is the unspoken sentiment, as if he'll let Frank off the hook so easily. Frank shrugs a shoulder, and turns a page. “Or read your book.”

 

“And what is it you're reading?” Matt asks. There's a mild grin at the corner of his mouth. “ _The Art of War_?”

 

“Funny,” he replies dryly, in a tone that carries absolutely no trace of amusement.

 

Matt won't know the answer unless Frank tells him – or if he puts hands on the book itself. Likewise, Frank won't know the book Matt carries unless Matt divulges the information; the writing is all in braille, and the cover simple, offering him no clues.

 

“I know what you're trying to do,” Matt clarifies belatedly, as if he tell what's on Frank's mind. “It isn't going to work.”

 

But it will. They can't rise to a fight here, not without drawing unwanted attention, so there isn't much for Matt to do with his would-be opponent. Matt only has a few options: he can wait here indefinitely, or he can swallow his pride and leave.

 

He'll get tired of this eventually, and Frank will be on his way.

 

Matt sighs again. Propping his cane against the side of the chair, he reaches up to remove his glasses. Once more, Frank is witness to those permanently dark circles around his eyes, and Matt rubs them with his fingertips.

 

“I like it here,” he elaborates, setting the frames back into place. “It's a nice smell: old pages and faded ink. I don't get enough of that; with embossed pages, it's not quite the same. It's soothing.”

 

Which is to say: Murdock isn't in any hurry to leave either.

 

Peachy.

 

Frank returns his focus to the book in his hands. The foreword talks about Yeats' youth, his inspiration, and mentions his belief in hermeticism. There's a line attached with that, and it stands out in a way that seems significant: Daemon est Deus inversus.

 

The Devil is God inverted.

 

Hm.

 

There is only so much he knows about Murdock. There are the important details: the research he makes with every presence which makes their way into his path. He knows Matt Murdock as an attorney in Hell's Kitchen, son of a boxer and son of God, in the vaguest terms. There's a thought in that: what makes a man raised with church every Sunday, a man who hides a cross under his dress shirt, dress himself as the devil when he seeks to do good?

 

He supposes it's a simple answer: find a presence that can scare the enemy, and what would a Catholic fear more than Hell itself?

 

The thought is stalled by the sound of Matt's voice. “Harper Lee,” supplies Matt belatedly, the stretching silence drawing him to speak. He lifts his book in demonstration, with its clean blue cover. “There's a group of blind youth here in New York, and a few of them are in high school. _To Kill a Mockingbird_ is required reading for that age.”

 

It makes enough sense. Still, Frank has to wonder. There's an edge of a frown at the corner of Matt's mouth as he speaks, and Frank suspects there must be some level of obligation. Matt is not as helpless as another person with his disability would be. He is granted gifts the others will never have, and to protect himself, he must pretend he doesn't. It must feel like some level of deceit, to present himself as an inspiration and example, while hiding a secret advantage.

 

“This is their thank you for my days spent volunteering,” Matt continues, thumbing back to the bookmarked page; he isn't far into the story. “They thought I'd like it.” Frank makes a sound at that, which extra sensitive ears pick up too keenly. “What's funny?”

 

“Atticus Finch.”

 

It does suit him.

 

There's surprise on Matt's face then. Matt looks ready to speak again, but the phone in his pocket cuts him short. For a stubborn moment, Matt doesn't reach for it, his focus set firmly in Frank's direction, and neither of them move.

 

The persistence of the rings wins out, and Matt answers with a sigh. “Yes?” What follows is a string of conversation Frank can't hear, but he can decipher the meaning well enough. “...nowhere. No. Why? Do I – no. That's fine. I'll take care of it.”

 

Matt ends the call, tucking the phone back into his pocket. Frank looks back at his book, and turns a page. “Duty calls?”

 

“Something like that.” Matt's brows narrow down. Though hidden behind his lenses, it's obvious his eyes are narrowed. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?” he asks again.

 

He's reaching, as he always does. Murdock wants so badly for there to be something in all of this. Even when Frank denies him, proves him wrong, or tells him no, Matt insists on trying. What he attempted last time was a gamble, and one that Frank ought to have foreseen. Despite the rejection that runs deeper now more than ever, Murdock does not seem to have wounded pride. It doesn't hinder him in the slightest; it seems to actually urge him on harder.

 

That's an issue.

 

“At the very least,” Matt continues, “you can tell me what you're reading – or I can just ask the woman behind the counter, if you're stubborn.”

 

Frank keeps his silence, turning through pages more swiftly now, and Matt surrenders with sigh. He collects his cane again, ready to carry on his way, but he stalls when Frank at last speaks.

 

He's found the page he wanted, and he lets his gaze follow down the stanzas, until he finds the line he seeks.

 

“Even lovers drown.”

 

Matt is very still. _A Man Young and Old_ may have reached his ears before, or maybe not. If so, it's likely from a smoother, more eloquent reader than Frank's rumbling baritone.

 

That's the simple fact. This thing that Matt attempts, this endeavor that he believes carries some redemption, is a fool's errand. It doesn't offer any protection; it doesn't solve a single thing.

 

“Yeats,” he adds, his eyes at last leaving the page, and he looks up to find Matt's expression looking tense and torn.

 

Not what he anticipates.

 

“Good thing I know how to swim.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 2015, this project is abandoned. Apologies about that. It is staying up, however, for people to read. I hope it can be enjoyed even in an unfinished state.

Rain comes in a whole six hours earlier than the news stations predicted.

 

Drops come in slow at first. It's easy to mistake at first, but speed and intensity increase as dark clouds roll in. It's no storm yet, but the threat of it is doubtlessly there: like a taste on the back of his throat.

 

It means a change of plans for him. However, the inconvenience Frank experiences is on a much lesser scale than most. Judging by the crowded streets around him, most others trusted the news as well – first mistake, and dangerously naive if applied to something other than simple weather – since precious few people drag out umbrellas before continuing on their way.

 

Ahead of him, a young woman fusses over her grandfather's position in his wheelchair. She adjusts his clothes, trying to pull them tighter, and adjusts the cap on his head: 'veteran' is written out across the front of it, as if the fact needs extra stating. One look at the man tells Frank enough; he can see it in his face even before he notes his missing limbs. People as a whole aren't naturally as astute; it needs to be spelled out for them. Even then, respect is rare and entitlement runs high.

 

Something people don't understand.

 

The material of Frank's coat is thick; resists water and keeps his heat. Hidden pockets are emptied, tucked into pants pockets instead, and then he shrugs it from his shoulders. The girl stirs a bit when he approaches, and extends his arm.

 

“Take it,” he urges, offering his coat stubbornly forward regardless of the shock on the girl's face and attempted denial.

 

Gratitude outweighs modesty with a few seconds to process it all. She takes the coat and covers her companion, providing him a sufficient enough shield from the rain, and she expresses her thanks profusely.

 

They leave, and Frank is left somewhat exposed. There is no skull on his chest to give him away – left behind when he had been planning for different, discreet work – but the gun on his belt is now exposed, and that will be hard to explain.

 

“I saw that.”

 

Frank turns, and it's some small comfort that Murdock has no umbrella either. The red lenses on his face are splattered with rain drops, and his hair turns the color of rust.

 

“You can't see anything,” Frank counters bluntly.

 

Matt isn't deterred. “You're going to get yourself into trouble, if you're walking around like that,” he points out.

 

“Could say the same,” Frank replies. The clean, white fabric of Matt's dress shirt becomes thin when wet, easily exposing the much brighter red hidden underneath it. It's some surprise to him that Matt grins, and he gives a jerk of his head, indicating to the space behind him.

 

Alleyway.

 

Matt doesn't wait for any cue that Frank will follow his invitation. He already ascends the fire escape, swift and agile, without needing Frank behind him. That's where there balance of power shifts in a fight: Murdock is nimble, faster, but still packs power. Eastern philosophy coupled with a boxer's strong right hook. Dangerous combination. The only advantage Frank has is sheer muscle mass, and that doesn't aid him here. He can't hoist himself up the side of the building with the same nimble speed that Murdock uses without even a strain. It's not even showing off; it comes naturally to him.

 

Frank takes the steps more slowly. Matt already has several seconds alone on the roof before Frank meets him, and he doesn't use them as Frank would anticipate. He's still in plain clothes; his shirt plastered against his chest and his hair sticking to his skin. With his head tipped up towards the storm, he seems like he's listening.

 

“Thunder soon,” Matt predicts, as if he can taste it on the droplets that fall into his mouth. He grins somewhat, as if self-deprecating. “I remember the first time I heard a thunderstorm, after the accident.”

 

Frank says nothing in reply. He stands under the rain, a fair distance from Matt, without concern for the weather.

 

“It was the loudest thing I'd ever heard,” Matt continues. “I felt like it was going to split my skull open.”

 

As if on cue, thunder rumbles, distant but booming, and there's a wince on Matt's face. It's mild, just a small pull at the corner of his mouth, and he replaces it with another grin easily enough.

 

“It's easier now.”

 

“Hm,” is Frank's only reply.

 

The smile fades as quickly as it came. Matt sighs, fingers dragging back through his wet hair, and he takes a few short steps towards Frank.

 

“I feel like I don't know a damn thing about you.”

 

Frank's frown deepens. So that's it: Matt admits a childhood fear, because he expects it'll coax Frank to do the same. Like that one bit of pushing will open him up like a book.

 

Misguided. Far too hopeful.

 

“Who are you?”

 

The question isn't what Frank anticipates. Before he can answer, Matt adds to it. “Marine. Widower. Murderer,” he lists, like facts rather than accusations. “I know those – everyone knows that – but then there's more.”

 

“There isn't.”

 

“Liar.”

 

Rain pounds against his skull, and Frank holds his ground. Matt advances on him, soaked and scowling, and there is an arsenal on his tongue. It's Frank's mistake, he is the one who armed Matt with weapons to be used against him in this fight: a donated jacket, words of William Butler Yeats, and care of Matt's injured body.

 

“What is it you want?” Frank asks bluntly, and something in Matt's face changes.

 

There's no hesitation in his reply. “You know.”

 

That may not be so. Matt admits that he knows nothing of Frank, but the sentiment is a mutual one. His knowledge of Matt is predictably superficial. What he knows for certain is Matt wants him to stop, but the layers within that grow blurry. He wants another murderer off the streets; he believes in the capacity for good in Frank, and that is what makes him try – along with something more.

 

Reasoning with Frank has failed him. No amount of words will convince Frank to end it. They've fought enough for that fact to be clear. Now, Murdock reaches out with something else.

 

The thunder grows closer, claps of it booming with shorter gaps in between, and this time Matt does not flinch.

 

“I want to talk about Ryker's,” Matt declares firmly, in belated response to Frank's request. “What you did.”

 

“Not necessary.”

 

Anger bleeds into Matt's expression, and Frank cuts him short. “No debt,” he clarifies. “You don't owe for what happened. You can stop.”

 

“Do you think--” Matt cuts himself short, as if choked by his own disbelief. “Do you think that's why I'm doing this?”

 

Frank doesn't budge.

 

“Jesus, Frank,” Matt sighs, frustration loosening his tongue. “I know you're not stupid.

 

“You came in after me. You cared enough to come.”

 

That's the dangerous sentiment.

 

“Am I wrong?”

 

Matt stands before him now, with precious little distance between them, and if Frank lies, he'll be able to hear it. Thunder booms around them, but it's not loud enough to disguise a beating heart.

 

“Leave it alone, Murdock,” Frank suggests, and Matt's reply holds no hesitation.

 

“No.”

 

Matt reaches out, and Frank doesn't stop him, when his hand makes contact with his soaked shirt. There's no skull; not today – but the presence of what he is does not come and go depending on what he wears. Not like Matt, where there's a distinct difference between the lawyer and the devil.

 

Matt's hand slides up Frank's throat, skin damp and chilled by the worsening fall of the rain; the lack of his jacket leaves Frank especially frigid to touch. “Everything smells better with rain,” Matt remarks, his voice quieter now with close proximity. Fingertips touch Frank's jaw, skimming over stubbled flesh, down to his chin, where they brush over his lips. That's where they linger, applying gentle pressure. “Usually. You still smell like a war zone.”

 

“How would you know?”

 

Frank turns his head away, breaking contact. It isn't a rough or recoiling gesture; he simply steps back, slowly and collected, and he hears Matt sigh. “Leave it,” Frank repeats, drawing back to rebuild to gap between them.

 

“Why should I?” Matt asks, and it seems like he doesn't expect the honest answer.

 

“This doesn't end how you want,” Frank replies, stern and sure. “This ends in you hitting me, and you leaving upset.”

 

Matt's brows tighten, and his tone is skeptical. “And if I choose not to?”

 

Frank doesn't intend to give him the option.

 

He advances, and Matt proves that he is faster – but he's not so well equipped. Plain clothes betrays him as his simple dress shoes skid across the soaked rooftop, where Frank's combat boots don't fail him. Matt is still swift enough to dodge, but he's not at his peak with his footing compromised; he has to keep moving to avoid every punch Frank throws. Retreat isn't an option, since Frank is not allowing him an opening.

 

“Frank,” Matt hisses, twisting away from his jabs, “stop it--”

 

Frank offers no response. If Matt wants this to stop, then he has to hit back.

 

When he does, it's not gently. Frank throws a fist outward, and Matt weaves. He shifts left, and his fist finds a mark: curving over Frank's outstretched arm to strike his jaw. It's a hard right jab; something learned from his father, back when Matt had eyes to study with. Mark of a boxer's son.

 

Cross counter: turn your opponent's offense into an opening. When he tries an assault, he opens up a weakness that can be exploited. That window is where you win.

 

With Frank's balance upset, all Matt has to do is apply enough pressure, and gravity does the rest. Frank's back hits the wet rooftop with a thud, and his breath catches with the impact.

 

“You know I didn't want to do that,” Matt says almost wearily.

 

That's the point, would be Frank's argument, but Matt intervenes. He's crouched down next to Frank, his head tilted as he looms over him. Blood marks Frank's mouth, flowing faster than the rain can wash it away, and Matt wipes it off with his fingertips. Both of them are soaked through now, drenched by the storm, and lightning illuminates Matt in a flash.

 

The image sticks, but Frank chooses to abandon it. He pushes himself to his feet, and he leaves Matt behind. He know Matt won't wrestle him into staying for a pointless conversation; he's shown he isn't in the mood for fight. This is over with, and Matt knows it; the only result of his struggle is more frustration.

 

“You're a terrible liar.”

 

The accusation stills Frank's retreat, and Matt carries on. “You don't say anything at all, because you know I can tell the difference,” he calls after him.

 

Without further pause, Frank starts moving again, and he doesn't stop, nor does he look back. The storm builds around them, and Matt has to raise his voice to be heard through it.

 

Matt's always too clever for his own good.

 

“If it isn't true, then why don't you just say it?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 2015, this project is abandoned. Apologies about that. It is staying up, however, for people to read. I hope it can be enjoyed even in an unfinished state.

He doesn't dream often.

 

When he does, there are extremes: images are either vivid enough to be real enough to touch; memories reborn, or completely drenched in darkness. The latter is what overtakes him now, holding tight enough to smother. Fear isn't a reaction, although frustration bleeds through and turns what should be rest into resistance.

 

There is nothing specific about it. His body feels weighed down and his head won't turn, despite his stubborn effort otherwise. Vague contact comes in the shape of hands on his chest, trying to still his attempts to fight against limbs weighed down by sleep. His arms tense, hands wanting to raise against whatever is engaging him, and the touch spreads there, pressing and curling around the swell of his biceps.

 

 _Easy,_ is the unspoken urge. _Quiet down. Relax._

 

Exhaustion combats with suspicion. Touch strokes up and down his arms, spreading warmth and vague reassurance, and eventually Frank relents. His posture slumps and he sinks down again, muscles loosening under phantom coaxing.

 

_Better._

 

Then sudden pressure spreads across the breadth of his hips, weight settling on his lap and connecting where--

 

His jaw clenches and his head throws back. Hips grind back against his own, steady and sure, and his hands grope vaguely for purchase that can't be found.

 

_Like that._

 

One hand drags a path down his chest, fingers curling into coarse hairs and rattling the chain of his dog tags. The other claps over his mouth, not bare but bandaged, and his sharp inhale comes with the scent of sterile gauze. Hand wraps. Boxer's habit.

 

Matt.

 

Alertness returns all at once. His eyes snap open to an empty room, and he's left with the evidence of what his body decided to want without his mind's permission.

 

Dangerous vice, but unavoidable. His body is not iron and runs on blood instead of oil; it's an inescapable reaction. Basic bodily need. Reminder that he's human flesh and bone; alive. This is all very well, but it doesn't excuse the form it took – the need of his body taking a very clear face beyond just dull, lingering lust.

 

The cot creaks with protest as he rises from it. Soreness makes itself apparent: old aches and fading bruises; he doesn't let them slow him. He makes his way to the bathroom and runs the shower hot enough to scald, intent on finishing what his unconscious mind began. Clothing left behind, he steps into the spray and steam. His head bows and water beats down on the back of his skull like rain.

 

He's on his back on soaked rooftop. The storm builds and Matt crouches down to wipe blood from his mouth, lightning illuminating his face in a flash.

 

His brow tightens. He thinks of nothing specific; doesn't allow details to penetrate his mind. There's nothing else to it, except his hand and water hot enough to disguise all trace.

 

The bathroom has only bare essentials: bar soap and basic maintenance. The towel he dries himself with is rough, cheaply made and bought in bulk. It serves the purpose; he doesn't require any added luxury. At a glance, he examines his reflection: skin in want of a shave and hair past regulation, with a purple shade spreading up his cheek. Those first two are something to correct, but not this instant. The last one will go away with time, like countless bruises before it.

 

He dresses again, his motions somewhat sluggish. Clothing disguises a history of violence written out in scars. Some injuries he can recall the origins of, and some he can't; he doesn't devote space in his memory to every single assault. The freshest one he can remember: bruising courtesy of Matt's fist.

 

A miniature fridge in the corner of the basement contains beer among a few other easy solutions for an appetite. In want of a cold pack, he presses a cold can against his jaw. His mind makes an idle tally: no freezer in this space; should relocate. Apply proper treatment before this builds to a swell.

 

He chose this safe house because of the distance. Daredevil has made a habit of following his footsteps, and shaking a tail with superhuman senses is no easy feat. His winding trail took him to the outskirts of the city, and this safe house isn't as well stocked; it hasn't been in use for awhile – more convenient locations have replaced it.

 

But it has beer.

 

The first can stays against his jaw, and a second is popped open and nursed. Poor standards for a man's breakfast. Usually, there's better form to his diet than this, but for now he feels inclined to gratification. There will be no work tonight. He's reluctant to risk the devil following at his heels.

 

It seems like flimsy justification. He can guard against Matt's interference; he has done so before. Now, however, he is reluctant to try at all. Distance is wiser; he has been seeing the man's face far too much – even with eyes closed.

 

When his skin feels sufficiently chilled, he returns that can to the fridge. The other he keeps in his hand as he wanders to the opposite end of the basement. There is a desk here, and the only thing on its surface is an empty notebook and a pen to fill it with.

 

He sits and his knuckles nudge it open. He scrawls a date and nothing else to preface it all; entry numbers have seemed pointless for some time now. No one else is going to be keeping count. No one else is going to ever find and read these articles; that is not their purpose.

 

He purges his mind, to make it quieter.

 

The pen touches the page and he's given pause. There scarcely are times where words seem beyond his reach, yet some part of him stalls in committing this thought to page: where his mind went when he slept, how his body wanted to fuck and it answered in the shape of Matt's body straddling his hips.

 

He is already familiar with the taste of Matt's mouth; something he tries to push from memory. Along with how his tongue traced the roof of his mouth before Frank chased him away with passivity. And the shape his lips take when Frank's name is spoken. Hands on his skin.

 

Frank sets his jaw. The pen moves.

 

He stays there for a length of time that he doesn't think to measure. There is nothing else but the scratch of ink on paper and the flip of a page once one is filled. It doesn't feel like immortalizing these thoughts to commit them to paper – it's the opposite. Once it exits his mind, it will be gone; exercised from his consciousness and then set aside.

 

In theory.

 

He writes about Matt. There is an overflow of detail about the man that has rattled within his skull. It isn't any plotted thing; words come as they come, and he'll finish when his trail of thought runs dry – and it doesn't, for quite some time. It fills more pages than he anticipates.

 

This is the crux of it all: Matt won't stop, and neither will Frank. Matt has convinced himself of something, and Frank cannot disprove it now. Matt has caught on; Matt recognized –

 

The pen stills and his brows knit together. In all the years of his operation, he has never edited a single journal; every line has been written in ink without one inch of hesitation. There has never been any need to cross out and correct even a single word.

 

Except he pauses now, his eyes narrowing at an unfinished sentiment. Slowly, after a pause that betrays too much careful forethought, he continues:

 

His own worth, is what he recognized. Not in general; his worth to Frank. He's not going to forget that.

 

Then he closes the book, abandoning it to seek out another suitable distraction.

 

There's an old motorcycle in the far corner that suffered a crash some time ago. It managed to carry him back here, although it would not be safe to ride again in this condition. He doesn't need to keep this old, broken bike, frankly; there are others that he owns. He has the money stashed away to buy a whole new one, if it struck him to do so – but he keeps the wreck too. There are things like this in certain safe houses: old engines and pieces of machinery, left to keep his hands busy when he can't make any other movements. Something to occupy his mind.

 

Fixing things is not what he is known for.

 

“ _Who are you?”_

 

Another gulp of beer. Half gone now. He turns on the radio and kneels down with his tools. There isn't just any news station playing; he's tapped into some police transmission. More useful and direct. Less political bullshit to wade through.

 

He has barely even begun, when the very thing he was attempting to avoid arrives on his doorstep.

 

The basement is mostly empty, so the knocking on his door echoes through the hollow space. At first, that's all there is: four sharp raps of what must be bruised knuckles. For several seconds, there is silence, then the sound repeats again, and a voice joins it.

 

“I can hear you in there,” Matt calls. “You know I can.”

 

Reaction has a delay of several seconds, where his mind works and wonders. Slowly, Frank closes the tool box and his hand again picks up the can of beer, swinging it back.

 

Empty now.

 

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Murdock will be able to smell alcohol and he'll likely make a comment. Let him assume whatever he chooses. Frank approaches the door in slow strides, but he does not reach for the locks.

 

Matt can hear him coming – of course he can – so he speaks again. “Let me in.”

 

Frank's lips thin. Not likely.

 

“I want to talk,” Matt elaborates in wake of no reply, for all the good it achieves.

 

“You're talking now,” Frank retorts bluntly and he hears Matt sigh, but he succumbs.

 

“There's going to be a problem,” Matt continues at length, vague enough. “It'd be easier with an extra pair of hands.”

 

Frank's frown deepens. This is different than their usual routine. A reluctant alliance is one thing: if they both have the same mission in mind, it's more logical to join up than get in each other's way. That isn't the same as Matt showing at his door, and inviting him to take up arms.

 

He'll have to abandon this safe house. There isn't much worth saving, barren as it is, but the inconvenience serves as annoyance. If he stays, Matt will hound him here repeatedly. He found this place, then he can find others; he'll have to keep mobile.

 

“Frank--”

 

“Leave.”

 

This is Matt's idea of a solution: he can't stop Frank and he knows it, so he wants to attempt to guide and contain him in little ways.

 

It won't work.

 

“Find someone else to help you,” Frank suggests as he moves from the door, but distance doesn't take him far enough to muffle Matt's voice. He ignores it, and Matt eventually takes his leave, but the sentiment lingers long after he departs.

 

“It isn't about helping me; I'm trying to help _you_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 2015, this project is abandoned. Apologies about that. It is staying up, however, for people to read. I hope it can be enjoyed even in an unfinished state.

He's becoming distracted.

 

It used to be excusable, but now he has the blood to show for it. It's a grim reminder that he's wandered too far, and now he pays for it. When he should be a singular focus, concentrated on his task and nothing else, his mind drifts. It isn't drastic, just small things that creep into his senses and make him slow; a stray rod jamming in between the cogs of the machine.

 

Everything else goes like clockwork. Research. Reconnaissance. Assault. Bigger game is off the plate for now; can't risk Daredevil crashing in and ruining days of carefully planned maneuvers – but even when he isn't physically present, Matt is interfering all the same. Matt lingers on his mind and makes him slow.

 

There's a wound on his back to show it. Stupid mistake; something he should have been aware of enough to dodge, but he wasn't. He is only human, and errors will be made. There are enough scars on his skin to prove that he cannot dodge every single attack – but this was very plainly stupid.

 

He should have noticed, but he didn't, until the knife was driven into his back. It isn't deep, really, and the thickness of his jacket eased the blow somewhat, but it's the position that makes it awkward. He can't reach the wound himself at that angle. The most he can do is slap gauze over it and wait it out.

 

Which is painful business, when moving house involves so much bending.

 

He could just abandon this old safe house altogether, but supplies are better off not wasted, and he can't trust Matt to not come back and try to make something out of the remains – little as there is. Most of it is simple to shove into the back of the van; the hardest thing is the bike.

 

It's difficult to say why he even bothers with it. There's strain involved in getting the bike into the van, making fresh blood blossom out against the gauze on his back, and the thing doesn't even work in the first place. He ought to have just left it. There are other bikes; there is other money for new bikes. Instead, he hauls this broken machine up, ruining bandages that he just set in a matter of seconds.

 

Stupid.

 

Shouldn't matter. He'll have to ease back somewhat if this wound persists, and fixing the bike will keep his hands busy.

 

The closest safe house is further in city and that makes him reluctant, but he figures there's little point. Matt has proven that he can find Frank's more obscure locations, so there is no point in trying to outrun him anymore. Frank unloads the van, and rather roughly. Equipment is placed vaguely where it ought to be, but the job is rushed; he's reluctant to be too particular with his back protesting every step.

 

Frank inspects himself in the bathroom mirror. It's even difficult to twist at the right angle to see this injury, much less treat it. The dressing is soaked with blood again; not because it's grave, but because it's so easily jarred by movement. Frank's lips curve and he debates with himself.

 

Matt's insistent on helping, so perhaps he should let him. It's a tricky thing to come to terms with, to invite something like that after stubborn denial. Matt will take it the wrong way; see it as escalation or as success and keep pushing as a result. Then again, he hasn't shown any signs of stopping so far. If Matt really won't be shaken, Frank could at least serve to receive some benefit from his company.

 

Disposable phones are an asset. Looking the number up is easy enough; he knows where Matt will be this time of day in the middle of the week. Frank sits back and dials.

 

“Nelson and Murdock,” a secretary's voice, soft and welcoming, greets him – sounds young and pretty; no surprise. “How may I direct your call?”

 

“Looking for Murdock,” he supplies, simply enough.

 

“Of course, are you on the--”

 

“No appointment,” he cuts in. “Need him directly. He's expecting this.”

 

“Oh. Well.” A pause and a rustle of paper; must be new to this.“It's usually not so forward like that. You'd need to answer some questions for me, then fill out some--”

 

“It's important.”

 

It isn't, really, but if he doesn't want to be put on hold or scheduled for a call a week from now, he better say so.

 

“I – well. Can I get your name?”

 

Good question – that he can't be honest about unless he wants this call rerouted to the police, but he can't say nothing, or Matt might unknowingly wave him off. So, there's a simper solution:

 

“Finch.”

 

There's only seconds of absence on the line before the telling click, and Matt's voice carries amusement when he greets him. “I thought _I_ was Atticus.”

 

More or less.

 

“Couldn't startle the help,” Frank explains simply, and here's a chuckle underneath Matt's voice.

 

“And what is this about?” he asks. “It isn't like you to make a house call.”

 

“It's your work; not your house,” corrects Frank idly, and he leans forward in his chair, trying to avoid pressure on the wound. “I want help.”

 

There's silence on the line for a moment before Matt replies. “Is this a trick?”

 

“You'd come anyway.”

 

Matt scoffs again, in a way that must mean assent, as Frank can hear the click of his pen. “Where am I going?”

 

That's two safe houses compromised now, and Frank wonders if he shouldn't have stayed put. No helping it now, and Matt has proved capable of sniffing him out regardless. He may as well get something out of it this time.

 

Matt doesn't arrive right away. There's enough of a wait in between for Frank to get himself involved with the bike again – but not enough time for him to discern the exact problem for what it is. There's knocking on his door again in the middle of the process, and Frank doesn't bother rising to his feet.

 

“It's not locked.”

 

The door creaks when Matt enters, and his voice comes clearly. “That doesn't seem like you,” he notes, and he makes the effort to lock it himself once he's inside, but Frank offers no comment. Instead, he wipes the grease from his arms and gives the half dissembled bike a skeptical glance. He still isn't certain why he bothers.

 

“What's this?” Matt has taken his own interest, his head tilting somewhat to the side. That's an odd gesture that Frank has noticed with growing regularity: like the equivalent of someone leaning forward in interest for a better look.

 

“Broken bike,” he supplies, and the wound on his back protests when he stands up. “May be a lost cause.”

 

“Are you going to keep trying?” Matt asks, and Frank shrugs. The bike may be a wreck; Frank believes that more and more, every time he even looks at it, but here he is – and when he glances at Matt, the expression on his face is not what he anticipates.

 

“That's not like you either.”

 

Frank's frown deepens, and before he can speak, Matt changes the conversation for him. “You smell like blood,” he chastises. “How bad is it?”

 

Frank lets Matt simply inspect the wound, rather than trying to gauge it with words. Frank pulls away his shirt, his brow creasing somewhat as he stretches against the injury, and Matt carefully peels the bandage off of his back.

 

“It's not terrible,” Matt concludes eventually, making a motion for Frank to sit. “But it needs stitches.”

 

Frank already set out the supplies Matt would need. After he made the call, he made himself prepared; no need to waste any more time than necessary on this. He sits backwards in the seat, so Matt can reach the wound without added strain.

 

Mostly, it's quiet work. The most pain comes when Matt disinfects the area, echoing with a raw, throbbing sting. The rest is dull and easily endured. Matt applies the stitches with precision granted by heightened senses, confident and quick.

 

“I finished it, by the way,” Matt says suddenly, without prompting. “ _To Kill a Mockingbird_.”

 

Frank says nothing about it. He shouldn't have brought the subject up again in the first place. Matt will be trying to make a point in all this, but Frank gives him nothing. His arms are folded on the back of the chair, resting on top of it as he leans his weight forward. He stays still, and he stays silent, but Matt keeps talking.

 

“So, I decided to look for something else to read,” Matt elaborates, “and it's hard to find Yeats in braille; I had to make do.”

 

It's not a twitch; it's a slow, steady curl of his fingers towards his palm. His hand squeezes into a fist, and Frank suddenly wonders just how attuned Matt's senses are.

 

There is a pause then, just Matt tying up his work and wiping away some drops of blood. It's almost tentative that Matt speaks next, as if choosing his words carefully. “A lot of it is – not what I'm used to reading,” Matt admits, which in itself in fair; it's older language. “But there's one I like.”

 

There's a warring reaction in him: something foreign. He isn't sure if he wants Matt to continue, or to stop him – but the debate is only so short lived, because Matt soon continues.

 

“I ran from my love's side because my Heart went mad.”

 

 _Owen Aherne and his Dancers_.

 

Slowly, Frank turns, twisting himself enough to look at Matt. There's a concentrated expression on Matt's face, as he tries to recall the words.

 

“My Heart could not bear the burden and therefore it went mad.”

 

There's a strange pull at the corner of Matt's mouth, as if his face isn't sure which emotion to express.

 

“That's probably not it exactly,” he adds, as if apologetic for words just barely misremembered. “But that stuck with me.”

 

Of course it would, considering the history Matt has behind him. Considering how many times he has suffered loss – but Matt doesn't invoke those words out of self reflection.

 

Frank has never been accused of running away.

 

For a moment, there is silence between them. The only noise to break it being the shuffle of Frank's body as he turns himself to face Matt properly. He sinks back in the chair, ignoring the dull ache of his injury. Matt empties his hands and he takes a step closer.

 

Frank lets his eyes follow Matt, top to bottom, and his hand extends, finding a grip on Matt's hip. Matt stills, brows raising above his colored lenses, and his question is more curious than accusatory.

 

“Have you been drinking?”

 

“No.” Stupid question. Matt would've been able to smell if it he had, surely, but that leaves the explanation: Frank touched him, and Matt feels wary in response. He wants to blame some catalyst for this sudden assent.

 

It's nothing so impulsive as that. This is a slower, surer thing. Frank is fully conscious and aware as he squeezes on Matt's hip, coaxing him closer. Matt obliges by two deliberate steps, each one weighted and decidedly cautious, until knees bump against his own. His hand moves to Frank's shoulder, gripping there to steady himself: bare skin on skin.

 

There's a moment of absence: no words spoken and no movement made. The only motion of note is how Matt's jaw works, before his lips part in slow, deliberate breaths. Gradually, his hand tightens its grip on Frank's shoulder and his thumb finds his collarbone, skimming along it to ghost over the chain of his dog tags.

 

With purposeful slowness, so Matt is aware of his intent, Frank reaches up. It's not quite as obtrusive as a mask, but his glasses also mute his expressions somewhat, so he does away with them. Matt makes no objection, tipping his head forward pliantly so Frank can pull them off, setting them aside with the discarded medical equipment.

 

Again, he's granted the rare privacy of Matt's uncovered eyes. His gaze is off, somewhere above Frank's head, glassy and unfocused. The skin surrounding them is colored slightly, purple like the beginnings of a bruise. This close, he's able to see the scarring at its edges: pale and thin like spiderwebs.

 

It's almost cautiously that Matt rolls his shoulders back, shrugging off his suit jacket, as if he expects Frank to stop him; he doesn't. He has to release his grip on Frank to do it, and he feels vividly aware of the absence. The jacket joins his glasses, placed on the clean surface of the table, and Matt stands still in front of Frank. He does not return his hand to its place on Frank's shoulder; not yet.

 

“Are you going to just sit there?”

 

It's hard to place a single word for the tone. It seems goading, more than chastising; Matt won't allow for Frank to be passive.

 

Frank stays still, and the corner of Matt's mouth turns up.

 

“How long has it been?” Matt asks, and his voice quiets somewhat, his tone lowering to something more intimate. His hands rest on Frank's shoulders, thumbs sliding idly up along his neck.

 

The answer to that isn't something Frank wants to linger on. He doesn't give the subject much attention, especially not to mark any specific date. He can't readily remember the last time, which says enough in itself. He holds his silence, and Matt's mouth quirks again.

 

“Is that why you're being so slow?” Matt asks, undeniably goading now. “Do you need help remembering what comes next?”

 

Jokes. Frank's brow creases. It means Matt's mood has shifted away from suspicion, at the least; though he isn't sure he enjoys the smugness as a substitute.

 

In response, Frank grabs hold of Matt's belt and tugs, dragging him forward so their knees bump together. Matt's grin spreads, and he braces his hands on Frank's chest so he doesn't fall forward. Gradually, one hand slides down, and Matt's thumb skims over the inscription on his dog tags before following coarse hair down from his chest to his navel. His palm presses flat there, low on Frank's stomach, and Matt bends his head so their foreheads touch.

 

Heat seems to spread out from Matt's palm. Sensation curls hot in Frank's gut, vague and difficult to define. His breath is shallow, his stomach rising and falling under the press of Matt's hand, and his thumb brushes across Frank's belt buckle.

 

When there is no objection, Matt continues. He uses both hands to unfasten his belt, tugging it loose before flicking open the button of his pants, and pulling the zipper down. Matt reaches his hand inside, cups his half hard cock, and gives a small sigh of his own when Frank grunts under his breath.

 

“Yeah?” murmurs Matt, a vague question without any clear direction. Frank says nothing, bracing his hands on Matt's hips as his legs gradually spread further apart. The small display of submission draws a sigh from Matt's lips and he applies more pressure with his palm.

 

In situations like this, Frank is not particularly responsive. His motions are muted and his noises are quiet. To someone like Matt, though, it won't matter; every little subtlety will be picked up on, found and noticed with the precise care granted by heightened senses. His booted heels press into the cold floor beneath him, and he leans back in the chair, letting Matt loom over him. Frank's gaze stays on Matt's face, taking in the concentrated expression, and the glassy stare that's aimed somewhere towards the wall behind him.

 

Slowly, through the barrier of his boxers, Matt rubs the heel of his palm against him. Matt follows him, picks up on it when Frank tenses or stalls in breath, and keeps his focus there. One hand braces on Frank's shoulder while the other strokes him – not in full abandon but not teasing either; exploratory and slow. He's hard within moments, the beginnings of a damp stain spreading underneath Matt's hand, and Matt taps his thumb there, drawing attention to it. Frank's response is a muffled sigh.

 

“Want to see you,” Matt says, fingers ghosting over the length of him now, and Frank makes a sound like a strained scoff.

 

“Big request.” His voice is steady, but tight, betraying tension, and Matt reprimands his attitude with a harsher squeeze of his hand. It draws a sharper, louder groan from Frank's throat; one he can only bite down on halfway.

 

Undeterred, Matt proceeds without Frank's explicit permission – clearly not being told 'no' in any case. With a bit of mild shifting of his hips, Matt pulls him free from his clothes, spits in his palm, then takes hold of him. His cock is full in Matt's hand, precome encouraged by the swipe of his thumb against the tip.

 

“Big as you,” Matt retorts quietly, curling his fingers around him and squeezing down.

 

Frank tips his head back, and his boots skid slightly against the cold concrete floor. His breaths are shallow now, each exhale threatening to carry noise along with it, as his heartbeat pounds. Matt is paying close attention, listening and feeling for those gasps and shivers – even mild as they may be. He notices, and he stays there, determined to turn the reaction into something deeper.

 

His hand strokes along the length of him, finding a rhythm and building from it. He strokes him up and down, pausing to circle the tip with his thumb or press against the slit. Frank has his lips parted for his shallow breathing, short and hot, and he slowly begins to rock his hips up towards Matt's hand. In the silence granted by the secluded safe house, every sound feels impossibly vocal: every inhale and exhale, every gasp, the steady movement of skin against skin, and Matt's occasional word of encouragement. If it seems loud to Frank, it must be deafening for Matt.

 

Matt says little things, barely there, and it should seem chastising or mocking, but it's inspiring instead. It adds to the heat curling low in his gut, or brings his hips to jerk forward. “Like that?” Matt asks, and Frank unconsciously groans in wordless affirmation.

 

“Tell me before you come,” Matt asks – instructs? – with his lips pressed close against Frank's temple. “I want to know--”

 

Distantly, Frank recognizes that Matt will lightly be able to sense the beginnings of his orgasm about the same time he knows it himself. The real reason he asks is because he wants to hear Frank say it. He wants to force him out of a stubborn silence and to face this for what it is: that he's invited Matt here and asked him for this. Matt won't let him deny the magnitude of it.

 

All at once, Frank grabs Matt's upper arm and pulls. Matt nearly falls into his lap, but he somehow keeps himself upright. Frank stares up at him, sweat on his brow and his voice rasping with want. His shoulders are tense and his grip is tight.

 

“Harder.”

 

There's only an instant of hesitation before Matt obliges his request. Frank strangles down a groan, his head bowing forward against Matt's chest. He pants against the fabric of his dress shirt, rich with the overly fresh scent of detergent, the stark contrast to Frank's stink of sweat and gunpowder. Matt buries his free hand in Frank's damp hair, while the other increases its pace, harder and harder over and over.

 

“Matt,” is as much warning as he can provide.

 

He comes with his teeth clenched. A thick moan grinds out from his clenched jaw, half muffled against Matt's ribs. There's a pounding in his temples, like something finally unraveling, like the tear of a bandage, like the burn of disinfectant. He shudders, full body, and his eyes clench shut. Heat pools from his groin outward, travels up his spine and sits like a dull ache. His pulse still races and his throat is raw with ragged breathing, tension bleeding out of his back as he slumps forward into Matt. He feels Matt's chest rise with a gasp, then slowly lower again as he exhales. Matt keeps his hand on him, slowing his pace to draw the last seconds of his climax out for all it can be worth. Frank shivers for a moment later before it bleeds away entirely, and Matt finally stills his hand.

 

There are a few seconds of absence, with only Frank's shallow breathing, and Matt smoothing out his hair. Gradually, Frank lifts his head and straightens himself in the chair. Come stains his stomach, and Matt's fingers, as his hand begins to pull away from him. Frank catches his wrist before he can withdraw entirely, and on some raw instinct, his mouth finds Matt's palm.

 

“Frank,” Matt breathes, voice quieter than before; clear indication of desire.

 

He tastes himself on Matt's hand, tongue moving between the gaps in his fingers. It isn't pleasant to taste, but it isn't entirely unpalatable either. He cleans Matt's hand, and his willingness to do so is taken advantage of by Matt somewhat. He turns his wrist, and rather than simply allowing Frank to wipe the trace away, he pushes forward, pressing two fingers past his lips.

 

Matt moves his hand, slowly moving his fingers in and out of Frank's mouth, and what he wants has little question. He strokes his fingers against Frank's tongue, as if to coax reaction out of him. Frank lets his jaw go slack. It may be the wake of his own orgasm leaving him more pliant than he usually would be. He feels a distinct difference, something loosened in the joints of his body, and he's urged on in ways he would deny before – so, he answers what Matt wants of him.

 

It takes a shove, getting Matt to back up a step to give Frank the space to kneel before him. The chair is kicked back, its legs scraping loudly against the floor. Matt winces at the noise, but he accommodates this, his hands moving from Frank's mouth to grip his shoulders instead. Frank pulls Matt's belt open in firm, almost impatient jerks, and sees how far Matt responded to just the act of touching Frank himself.

 

“Frank,” Matt says again, and he gasps when Frank pulls his cock free. Blunt nails lightly dig into the skin of his shoulders, and again Frank wonders just how much his abilities increase his sensitivity. He gasps, faintly, when Frank gives him a few slow, full strokes, his hips arching abortively up towards his hand. Matt may be used to slower, more artful things than what Frank will provide him. This is no refined skill; it's simple sense and practicality. He doesn't explore and take time as Matt did for him. He's driven forward with too firm of an insistence.

 

He steadies Matt with his hand at the base of his cock, and he drags his tongue across the length of him. Matt groans, low and unsteady, and his hands tighten their grip. Frank glances up at him, from his position on his knees before him, and he repeats the motion, over and over, base to tip.

 

“Oh,” Matt breathes, his hand moving to instead grip tight in the hair at Frank's nape. There's a flush in his face, his mouth slightly parted as his breaths quicken, and eyelids flutter. It's an expression that is so much more open, in ways Frank does not anticipate.

 

He rocks towards Frank's mouth, and that hand in his hair slowly begins to guide him. He pulls Frank one way or another, not harshly or in demand, but in steady encouragement. Precome spreads on the head of Matt's cock, and Frank cleans it away with a sweep of his tongue.

 

“Ah,” Matt sighs again, his hand tightening in Frank's hair. He pulls, more urgently this time, to hold Frank where he is. “There--”

 

Matt arches forward, and his request is obvious without being spoken, as he pushes up against Frank's lips. There's a moment of mild debate in the back of his mind. He's uncertain about having Matt fully in his mouth, without having any frame of reference for performing the act itself. Instinct outweighs it, with only an immediate hesitation. Frank parts his lips, letting Matt slide inside with a thrust of his hips.

 

The noise Matt makes is an almost startled moan, that melts into a softer, contented sort of whimper. His fingers stroke back through Frank's hair, as if to express gratitude and appreciation where his voice fails him. Frank keeps his jaw slack, letting Matt shallowly rock against his mouth. Considerate enough, Matt only goes halfway, as if equally aware that neither know Frank's tolerance. With a few moments of Matt's slow, steady thrusts, it doesn't seem too difficult to muster. Frank increases the pace himself, raising his tongue to stroke along the underside of Matt's cock, and is rewarded with a moan breaking from Matt's lips.

 

Both hands find Frank's hair now, gripping there as Matt finds a rhythm. He rocks against Frank's mouth, gradually pressing deeper, and Frank is the one who brings him the rest of the way. His hands find the back of Matt's thighs and push, bringing him to the back of his throat. Matt gasps out and lingers there, pressed to the hilt inside Frank's mouth, and his thighs tense as he begins to shake.

 

“Please,” Matt manages, and the request doesn't need any clarification.

 

Frank sucks and swallows around him, and Matt cries out. He comes inside his mouth, which is more sudden to bear than Frank anticipates. Again, there's that unpleasant taste, which he swallows down. He struggles once, then regains himself, and holds Matt's hips as he shakes in the aftermath of it.

 

When he's certain Matt has finished, he pulls off. His lips feel swelled and his jaw sore, sweat creeping down his back. Matt seems shaky enough himself, leaning his elbows against the table, and Frank brings himself to his feet. His gaze finds Matt, and through his breathless flush, Matt smiles at him.

 

Frank doesn't linger. Movement carries him forward, away from Matt and into the safe house bathroom. He runs the shower hot and drops his remaining clothing without care for where they land. His boots are left with heavy thuds and his pants are dropped on top of them. Disorder. Unlike him. Distracted again.

 

The first thing done is collecting water in his mouth, then promptly spitting it out again. This is repeated three times more, trying to kill the taste in his mouth. His come. Matt's come. He didn't kiss him. That detail seems instinctively important.

 

A moment later, Matt enters behind him. There's a brief instant where he wonders if Matt will attempt to enter the shower with him. He doesn't, going for the sink instead. He's less messy than Frank, to some degree, though he imagines the sweat will get to him soon.

 

Ignoring the added presence, Frank scrubs away all trace, bar soap and the burn of the water doing its work. The wound on his back aches, ripped open by exertion, and he ignores it. Half the suture is still intact; it'll have to be enough – but it doesn't go unnoticed.

 

“Are you bleeding in there?” Matt asks, as if there is any room for him to doubt, with senses so sharp.

 

There's a moment where Frank keeps quiet. “Tore the stitches,” he replies belatedly, voice raising slightly to be heard over the water, and he hears Matt sigh – as if it's simply Frank to blame for that happening.

 

“I'll fix it for you when you're out,” Matt says, and after that he is gone. He exits the bathroom, not leaving space for argument or objection.

 

Even so, if he lingered, Frank has no response on the edge of his tongue. He finds no annoyance, nor any level of defensiveness. Matt is staying, and he has no word to say against it. He bows his head under the spray of water, and the droplets drum against his skull.

 

With eyes closed, he tries to recall that piece of Yeats that he had not touched in years, that Matt summoned up in demonstration. When he was young, he would mouth along with the words he read, soundlessly committing them to mind. Now, years later, he returns to that old habit, lips moving under running water.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 2015, this project is abandoned. Apologies about that. It is staying up, however, for people to read. I hope it can be enjoyed even in an unfinished state.

When he exits the shower, he glances only briefly at his reflection. He still looks tired, in a way he cannot readily identify. It's not exhaustion, exactly; it's something lazy and subdued. Damp bangs hang messily against his forehead, and he smooths them back, easily remembering the feel of Matt's hands in his hair. Too distinctly defined.

 

He spent too much time in the shower already, so doesn't linger any longer, wiping his body down and exiting the room. He doesn't think much about exposure as he crosses through the safe house, seeking to replace his old clothes with something new.

 

And he isn't the only one with that in mind. As he steps out, he finds Matt has helped himself to Frank's limited wardrobe. His dress pants remain, but he's replaced his button-up with one of Frank's plain cotton shirts. They aren't too apart in stature, but Matt's body is more slender than his own, so the fabric hangs loosely around his shoulders.

 

The glasses are still missing from his face, and he seems more exposed like that than he would without his clothing.

 

Matt should be gone, but here he is: sitting on the cot, one hand on a book, while the other idly tugs at an unmarked shirt that hangs low enough to expose his collarbone.

 

Frank doesn't greet or acknowledge. He dresses himself and makes no show that he even recognizes Matt is here. Doesn't draw attention to what Matt may be reading; it's printed text and not a journal, that is all he needs to know – that level of privacy wouldn't be so casually invaded, he expects, though for a moment the threat of that seems sincere. Frank can't readily recall what book it may be. He hasn't used this safe house in too long; memory feels faint. What would he have stored here? Not Yeats; that hasn't been on his shelves in years. Something else. Something new for Matt to latch onto and seek meaning.

 

Mistakes.

 

He takes himself to the stove and fridge instead. He grabs beer – two cans – and in an afterthought, his fingers curl around something more substantial. Safe houses like this one, which haven't been established as a primary go-to, aren't stocked with fresh food. Too much risk of spoiling. Instead, there's alternatives: like the pack of powdered eggs.

 

Milk would be better to use for this than water, but since that spoils too, he has none. This is will have to do. He mixes the two together roughly and turns the heat up on the stove top.

 

As Frank works, Matt seems to get curious. Frank can hear the cot creak as he rises from it, and the steady fall of his footsteps. When he's close enough, Frank nudges the second beer in his direction. It's an option, one Matt can accept or deny without obligation, as Frank nurses his own. Matt accepts, with some surprise, and Frank pours the mess of powder and water in the frying pan, stirring until it forms something solid.

 

“It's a nice bike,” Matt remarks suddenly, surprisingly casual, as he nods towards it. He must have gone back to look at it while Frank was out; must have acquainted himself with most of the safe house, really. That's how he found the book; which book? He can't bring himself to remember. Matt left it by the bed. “You really don't know what's wrong with it?”

 

“No,” Frank replies simply, and Matt turns to face him again.

 

“Keep working at it, and you'll figure it out,” Matt suggests, and the corners of Frank's mouth pull downward.

 

Somehow, instinctively, the reply seems loaded, but Frank doesn't get the chance to remark on it. Matt is already continuing on.

 

“That doesn't smell very appetizing,” Matt adds in regards to the eggs, punctuating the statement with a click of popping the can open. Frank doesn't argue otherwise, but when it's finished, he divides them into two plates nonetheless, despite Matt's skepticism.

 

Burner off and pan set aside, Frank leans against the counter with the plate and fork. There's nowhere here to really sit and eat, since the table is already full of weaponry and medical supplies. Matt seems not to mind standing, accepting the plate offered to him. What he does object to, however, is the first mouthful he takes from what Frank put in front of him.

 

For an instant, Matt looks tempted to simply spit it back onto the plate again. His throat works visibly hard to swallow, and he chases the taste away with a very generous gulp of beer.

 

“Jesus, Frank,” he says in disbelief. “How can you eat this?”

 

And then he's eating Matt's share too, since he's scraping it onto Frank's plate instead, where Frank eats without argument.

 

“You could buy some real food,” Matt continues, between another gulp of beer, “or pay for a meal somewhere.”

 

Frank knows where that implication lies, and his jaw sets. Matt places his dish in the sink, seeming too acquainted with his surroundings; too comfortable. Hopeful.

 

Misplaced.

 

“That what you want?”

 

Frank doesn't so much as look up from his plate. He eats several forkfuls, steadily chewing and swallowing.

 

“You want dinner and a show sometime?” he asks, his tone flat. “How do you find that working out?”

 

Now that he's taken step too far, and Matt will now expect to get away with more. Like a rolling stone, he thinks Frank will continue to fall. He'll be wrong. Frank watches his face, looking for response. Matt's brows tighten, his lips curve, but he does not rise to bait like Frank anticipates.

 

“You know what I want already,” Matt says, plain and direct.

 

He does know: cease fire; surrender. That's what.

 

Something impossible.

 

“But what do _you_ want?”

 

Matt takes the plate from Frank's hands. It's not forceful or snatching, but firm nonetheless, as he sets it purposefully aside on the counter. Frank doesn't fight the gesture, standing even with him, and he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“You wanted this,” Matt says, answering his own question – or a part of it. “Me.”

 

It isn't a lie or any stretch of the imagination. Frank wanted it enough to initiate it; not out of some vague, distant pent-up lust, but something specific. Something solely to do with Matt.

 

“Are you going to act like nothing happened?” Matt continues, when the silence drags.

 

Matt has his point: denial at this stage is flimsy. Frank brought Matt here. Frank escalated the situation on his own. He invited it.

 

Frank pushes past Matt to get access to the sink. He starts the water and collects the plates in the basin. Keep his hands busy. Decent distraction. Better not to acknowledge it at all.

 

Matt won't take silence as response, but he'll get sick of this eventually. Matt has a schedule and Frank does not. It's worked before. He can't wait forever for Frank to crack under invasive questioning.

 

Matt does persist, as Frank expected, but the means he employs aren't what he anticipates. He approaches Frank's back, giving him little space to move: trapped between the counter in front of him and Matt at his back. His hands find purchase on Frank's hips, fingers digging in to move in slow circles. He's coaxing, trying to prove his point, trying to rile him again.

 

Matt gives a sort of sigh, a mixture of desire and exhaustion, and his head bows forward. His forehead presses against Frank's shoulder, where soft bangs graze against the skin of his neck.

 

“What do you want?” is repeated as fingertips follow the waistband of his pants, tracing the line down towards his navel.

 

His lips part for an exhale. Matt's fingers slip in the gap between his pants and shirt, finding skin and focusing there. His hand is warm and worn, lingering. Distracting. Heat curls in his gut at even that small gesture. Proof of too much pent up denial.

 

“God,” Matt murmurs, and it's more disbelieving than impassioned now, as his hand follows the curve of Frank's hip. “How much of this hurts?”

 

Frank can't estimate how much Matt's heightened sense picks up. Bones improperly reset or fractures Frank has not been able to properly nurse back to health. When Matt focuses on a spot, the initial response is a dull ache, but then his fingers work, slowly rubbing in a way that soothes old tension into something relaxed – the kind Frank forgot existed.

 

It won't work. Frank doesn't shove him back; doesn't respond with physical assault. He chooses passivity instead.

 

“Enough,” Frank says, blunt and direct, and Matt's hands go still.

 

Slowly, Matt's touch does pull away. It's a gradual, lingering thing. While Matt will persist, this seems one barrier he's hesitant to push. His head, however, remains bowed against Frank's shoulder-blade, making the question that follows half muffled against Frank's skin.

 

Even while quiet, even while softly spoken, there's an undercurrent to Matt's voice – as if he already knows the impact of what he'll say, as if he knowingly wields it like a knife.

 

“Who's Henry?”

 

A plate clatters in the sink. Not loudly. Not violently. It's a jerk from his hand, born out of stilling far too sharply. It's slight, but when the only other noise in the safe house is the sound of running water, it rings like a bomb.

 

How.

 

“Leave.”

 

This is an old safe house. Frank can't remember what it all contains. The last time he took residence here, he may have very well have not been alone.

 

“Frank –“

 

Matt went looking around while Frank was gone. What did he find?

 

“Now.”

 

Not without reluctance, Matt withdraws. He might seem a bit ashamed, for the nerve he's struck, but his own frustration is visible in his hurried motions. He reclaims his things, swift and snatching, and Frank doesn't turn around from the sink.

 

What did he find?

 

“Go,” Frank says, when Matt's footsteps linger by the door and he knows it won't be enough. He doesn't want to hear whatever he wants to say, but nonetheless Matt gives his final word.

 

“You need to stop running.”

 

The door opens and shuts, and Frank tears himself from the sink. He stalks through his own living space, dissecting it like he would the scene of a crime. There's something here. Something Frank forgot about. What did he find?

 

Matt was reading--

 

It's there, still by the cot, and Frank feels tension in his gut.

 

Stephen Crane.

 

Hardback. No bright cover. Just its title. Not Crane's poetry but his most famous prose. A story about a boy who goes to war, who is afraid to be labeled as a coward, who desperately tries to prove himself a hero. A boy named--

 

His own messy scrawl is on the inner cover, trying to be ordinary, trying to be disguised enough to be mistaken for someone else.

 

_For another Henry._

 

A narrow parallel. Still stuck with him. A gift he didn't give. Left behind in favor of a pack of records. This had seemed ill-thought. Too exposed. Too easy to track its origin. So here it stayed. Now its intended recipient is far, far away and safer for it.

 

_I ran, I ran from my love's side--_

 

Owen Aherne and his Dancers. An old man fell in love with someone far too young, so he fled.

 

Sentimental. Stupid.

 

His hand releases its grip and the book drops back onto the thin mattress of the cot. His jaw is clenched and his hands form fists.

 

 _Run_ , had been one of the last words on his lips, _get away from me._

 

He should have gotten rid of it. There is no use for it; it would never see its intended owner. The motivation should burn even stronger now that its presence has betrayed him: dispose of it.

 

Then it would be gone: the last bit of evidence that Henry Russo had ever been a part of this at all.

 

Like severing a lifeline.


End file.
